Windstad Manor
by Burnt Sierra
Summary: A short story I entered for a competition over at Chorrol, back in April 2013, based on a theme of absolution and inspired by "Hearthfire"


**A/N: **

This is a short story I entered for a competition over at Chorrol, back in April 2013, based around a theme of absolution and inspired by the Skyrim DLC Hearthfire.

**WINDSTAD MANOR**

Entering Rorikstead from the south in the late afternoon, the peace is shattered almost instantly. Ahead of me are two girls in the midst of an argument, defiant body language aggressively facing one another.

"You're going to get it, Sissel!"

"Why? What did I do?"

"I told you to weed the garden by sunset, and you didn't..."

The girl speaking the words abruptly stops as she catches sight of me, her squabble with the other girl she was speaking to temporarily forgotten. Sisters. Same bone structure, same pug noses. The similarity is striking, only a variation in hair colour and clothing. Without turning my head, I take a closer look at the clothing, trying to ascertain what is bothering me. The belts, I realise. Tied too tightly, in an attempt to provide shape, and hide the fact that the dresses are far too large and ill fitting. Two inquisitive little faces study me with undisguised curiosity as I walk on, the slight squint of the eyes, noses wrinkling, the heads tilting in unison, as if carefully synchronised. I pretend not to notice, gripping the long handles of the wooden cart I pull behind me tightly. A superfluous gesture, seeing as I have strapped a harness around me that connects to the cart, but it makes me feel less self-conscious and gives my hands something to do.

"Is that a _boat_ on the cart?" One of them says.

"_Be quiet_ Britte, he might hear us."

"But why is he pulling a boat?"

"Britte!"

A farmer in the midst of harvesting cabbages in the field to the left, pauses in his work, walks over to a ramshackle wooden fence, and leans against it watching. He wears cheap clothes, torn and stained and a bushy, unkempt moustache that obscures half his weathered leathery face. I wonder if he is about to say something, but no words emerge. Instead, he pretends to stare to where I have just come from, though the prickle of heat in my neck suggests his eyes never stop following me.

Ahead two Hold guards are patrolling the hamlet.

A warm flush spreads across my cheeks and I study the ground ahead intensely.

Don't stop me. Don't stop me, I think over and over. Why did I not hire a horse? It would have been less conspicuous. Maybe. What if they think I am carrying war contraband? That is what they thought of that Jester they arrested outside Whiterun, that turned out to be a coffin and the crazy fool went on a killing spree.

As I reach them, they step off to the side to let me past, their arms folded, bodies still. Their faces completely covered by the helms they wear, stopping me from seeing their expressions. The helms have always disconcerted me. Gaps cut for the eyes and mouth and an iron spike sticking straight up to the heavens. The effect is alien and intimidating. Should I look across and smile? Alternatively, that might draw attention, which is the last thing I want. Instead, I settle for keeping my eyes on the road, as if watching for stray rocks or uneven ground.

I walk on.

It is a nice afternoon, just a gentle breeze blowing through the long, withered grass on each side of the road, causing it to sway, the sun's warmth making the stonewalls and thatched roofs of the houses look warm and inviting. Any other time I would be thinking it looks a nice place to live.

Any other time.

...

...

Outside the settlement, I pass between two rocky outcrops, jagged edges looming over the road casting shadows that cross and form patterns of no discernible form, past trees with dead branches and no leaves. Ahead the road drops sharply downhill. I pause at the top and look down, trying to decide how difficult it will be to keep the cart under control. I have no other options, so I take a deep breath, grasp the handles firmly and set off, keeping my legs bent slightly to take the strain.

Halfway down I pause and look carefully around. A cart, similar in design but smaller than the one I pull, sits in the middle of the road, an empty chest upon it. Lying around the cart are multiple dead bodies, stripped of all clothing and belongings. From the bodies, a mix of male and female, Orc and Nord, pools of blood dribble down the path, thick at the top and thinning as they descend. Who or what ever killed these people is not far ahead of me. I glance up at the sky. An hour or so until it starts to get dark. Down the road, off to the right I can see water, a river or fast moving stream, the sun glinting reflections off its surface. I set off again, cautiously, my eyes glancing from side to side, ears straining for suspicious sounds. My pace is slower, the descent steeper, and I can start to feel the muscles in my legs burn with the effort. Breathing through my mouth, I press on, with one final wary backward glance at the bodies and cart.

I reach the bottom of the slope exhausted. Dusk begins to fall, the final rays of sunlight disappearing behind ominously dark looking clouds. Hoping it does not start to rain, I pull the cart off the road, behind a large boulder and down a gentle grassy embankment, toward the stream I saw earlier, and proceed to set up camp for the night.

...

...

Grimacing, I peel off my shoes, annoyed with myself that I rushed out unprepared. What was I thinking? Pleated shoes are not suitable for hard walking, not that I thought it through. Rash action very rarely is as effective as a well-planned endeavour, and this I acknowledge ruefully, was rash. Everything about my outfit is wrong. Whilst silk pants and a brocade shirt might be elegant in the city, perhaps even rakish, out here it just looks overly flamboyant and tacky, and the material has gained a few disturbing sweat stains and rips. The skin on my feet feels tender, warm to the touch, especially at the front just below the toes. I sit down, bend my knee and twist my right front toward me. The skin does not look good, red and raw. The shoes I hit firmly against the ground, heel first and then shake out, to remove any dirt or debris, and then hobble the few feet to the stream. With a sharp intake of breath at the cold, I plunge both feet into the water, and let them soak.

When I can stand the cold no more, I gingerly walk over to the cart, stepping on the heels as I go, and look through the belongings I thought to bring with mounting dismay. No medical supplies, no potions of cure disease or restore health, no bandages. I carefully avoid knocking the rugs covering up the small boat, and reach to my designing supplies which I have tied to the cart to the side of the boat. Plans, measuring instruments, sketchbooks. I pause, then tear out two pages from the largest sketchbook, fold and shape them, and put them into each shoe as padding.

I do not dare start a fire in case it draws attention; either from animals or whatever killed those people back up the hill, so I eat a cold meal of braided bread washed down with water. When I finish eating, I lie on my back, put my hands behind my head and look up. Stars play their teasing game of hide and seek behind the clouds that drift across the sky, a sky that oozes green and purple auras. I drift off to exhausted sleep amidst the flickering glow of Lunar Moths and the sounds of the stream rushing over rocks.

...

...

I wake early to a muted grey landscape and walk the short distance to the stream. Mindful of the blisters, I determine to be more careful, and wash accordingly. The reflection I see in the stream disturbs me, a fleshier face than I recall stares back, a monument to years of soft living and comforts. My hair looks lank and greasy, unruly straggles falling over my eyes. If the Imperial girl I hire to come style my hair each week could see me now, I think ruefully, she would be horrified. I carefully take the necklace off that I wear round my neck, a gift from a woman I was married to long ago, and place it on top of the pile of my clothes. Naked, I climb back into the stream and duck my head under the water, and then scrape my hair back with my fingernails into a long ponytail. Very different from the teased look I usually favour, but I do admire how the water has darkened it slightly, adding shades to the spreading grey.

The stream I camped by joins into a river. The day is overcast and dreary, though no rain falls yet. I pause at the start of a stone bridge that crosses over the wide river, and look ahead with trepidation. A raised embankment is to the right, and high, grey rocks to the left. Across this gorge is a raised wooden platform and rope bridge, underneath which heavy boulders are scattered on the ground. I walk ahead slowly, the muscles in my arms and chest tense as I pull the cart carefully behind, avoiding the obstacles.

My eyes stare, unblinkingly at the sight. Bodies neatly lined up against the embankment, naked body after naked body. Some sliced, some missing limbs, one scalped, one with legs crushed. Arranged in a tableau of horror, like those plays where no one speaks and the audience feels stupid trying to decipher the meaning, of which I have always been fairly convinced there is none, and I am being subtly mocked. Why arrange them like this? Was it perhaps to make it easier to collect their weapons, armour and anything else valuable? I shake my head; this land never ceases to amaze me. I kneel down by the nearest body, and sniff. There is no smell of decay yet, no insects swarming. I take a closer look at the faces. Old scars, crudely drawn tattoos, hard, weathered skin. Bandits, I presume. Did they run into an Imperial patrol, I wonder, perhaps a rival gang? A Khajiit trader I met back in Whiterun described Skyrim as a cold, hard land. Looking at the bodies now, pitiful in their nakedness, I find it hard to disagree. Perhaps this is what we have all become, scavengers, living moment to moment, day to day.

...

...

The rain begins. Black clouds race overhead, rumbles of thunder sound like they're coming from every direction at once, the landscape looks grey and devoid of life. The rain is relentless and unforgiving, soaking my clothes and stinging my eyes. I bow my head, and trudge on, seeking shelter that is not there.

Wiping the rain out of my eyes for what seems like the hundredth time, I see a shape up ahead, not moving, and hurry towards it. A dead horse lies on the ground, with a carriage behind it. A large carriage, I notice with excitement, with large wheels, high enough that I can climb under it. I quickly check the area, but visibility is poor, and the rain and thunder are making such a noise I can hear nothing. I can only hope that anything else that may be nearby has also had their senses impaired to the same extent. I walk around the back of the carriage, rolled up rugs lie in the rear, now soaked by the rain. I pull the harness off me as quickly as I can, my cold wet fingers struggling to undo the clasps, then crouch down, climb under the carriage and squat there, protected from the rain.

The face of the corpse startles me, and I cover my mouth quickly, the bitter taste in my mouth threatening to become overwhelming. An elderly Redguard woman, glassy eyes staring straight ahead, straight at me. I pause, then lean forward, grab the nearest arm, and pull the soaking corpse under the carriage with me, cold to the touch, eyes still staring nowhere. She is fully clothed still, rough garments and a cheap hat. With a hollow feeling in my stomach, I realise what is troubling me. Unlike the bandits earlier, nothing has gone. The horse not been flayed for meat, the clothes not taken and the rugs are still in the back. It seems senseless, and I find myself wondering if the killing itself has become the motivation?

...

...

When the rain stops, I leave the carriage, refasten the harness to me, and pull the cart back onto the road, following the path-curving round to the right. As morning progresses the terrain starts to change and the sun comes out. Trees here are a vibrant green and have plentiful leaves. A dog barks loudly near a shack I can see off the road, but does not come near me. Even the stone road seems friendlier in the sunlight.

A short distance ahead of me I see the figure of a man slouched against the trunk of a tree. I walk nearer, and he raises his hand in greeting.

"Hello there, fellow traveller. One itinerant minstrel and wandering wastrel, at your service. What brings you out on the trail today?"

"I'm travelling to Morthal," I reply, looking at him carefully, taking in his deeply tanned weathered skin, scruffy facial hair and eyes that seem to be finding amusement in something.

"Morthal, our destinations are the same I see." A wide toothy smile slowly spreads, lightening his face and knocking years off him, and he leans towards me. " You mind if I travel with you a while then?"

"No, not at all."

"My thanks. So what brings you this way then?" he asks. I smile politely. His eyes watch me for a second, and he laughs. "Me first then. Well, I heard tell of a Bard in the tavern there, an Orc, my colleagues say he's supposed to be the worst in all of Skyrim, I had to see with my own eyes."

"You're a Bard?" I ask.

"That I am my friend, that I am. Talsgar's the name, though most call me Talsgar the Wanderer, on account of my wandering nature. You are?"

"Lasska," I say. "Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine. Just Lasska? Not many Nords I know that weren't given a nickname that stuck at some point or other."

"You're right. Lasska the Designer. Not the most original I'm afraid."

"Ah, I've heard that name many a time," he says, and nods his head to me. "Seen much of your work I might add as I've travelled the road."

"You're too kind."

"Well, it's not every day I meet a celebrity. You won that award a short while back, from High King Torygg, may he rest in peace. The Services to Skyrim award. For bringing, what was it now, I heard the song when I was in Solitude last."

I grimace. "For bringing beauty to Skyrim's rugged landscape, I think it was."

"That was it, beauty to the rugged landscape," he observes my discomfort. "Nothing to be embarrassed about you know. You heard the song about you? It was quite poetic, I must admit."

"No, not yet."

"Ah, well, you must ask to hear it the next time you visit Lisette in The Winking Skeever, she was quite proud of it, and I'm sure would love the chance to perform it to her inspiration."

"I'll be sure to do that."

We walk on in companionable silence. A large fort stands off the side of the road, and figures are visible on its walls. Without speaking, we veer away and give it as wide a berth as possible. Few signs of life are on the road itself, foxes and deer that view our arrival with interest, before scampering off into the woods. The journey feels peaceful. The sun illuminates the frozen snow and ice on the hills above us, bright and brilliant.

"You heard any news on your travels?" Talsgar asks.

"No, I've only been on the road a short time. You?"

"Only what happened in Whiterun."

"Oh?" I turn my head to him, my pulse and heart beating rapidly. "What did happen in Whiterun?"

"You haven't heard? The new Thane of Whiterun killed the notorious bandit, Hajvarr Iron- Hand, in White River Watch."

"Oh, that," I reply, and look away to the road ahead. "Yes, I did hear about that."

"Ah, but did you hear what happened after?" Talsgar grins with pleasure when I shake my head no. "The Whiterun guards had brought the bodies of the bandits back to the city, Jarl Balgruuf had been thinking of displaying them I believe to show the townsfolk that they were safe. Anyway, before they could be displayed, someone broke into where they were being stored, and stole the body of Iron-Hand. From right under the noses of the guards."

I glance away, and then look back, my mouth dry. "Why would someone steal the body of a bandit?"

"Exactly, that's what got everyone talking. The latest theory, or the last one I heard anyway, was that some members of his gang survived, and were going to use necromantic rites to bring him back from the dead."

"Necromantic rites?" I say with a smile. "Embarrassing at any rate."

"For the Jarl? Oh aye, very. But it gives us lonely travellers something to discuss on the road now doesn't it?" Talsgar turns around his head, and looks at the cart I pull. "Forgive my inquisitiveness, but would that be a boat back there tied to the cart?"

"It would, yes," I reply, my attempt at calmness sounding forced to my ears. "I'm looking at a plot of land, right on the coast. The fishing is supposed to be excellent."

"Combine a little business with pleasure, eh?" he laughs and winks at me. He turns his head and looks at the cart once again. "Would it not have been easier to use a horse to pull your cart?"

"It would have been, yes. If I wasn't terrified of them. Bad experience in my younger days, I don't go near them," I look him in the eyes, and sense the questions he is not asking. Questions I do not want him to ask. Hurriedly, I continue. "Besides, this isn't as difficult as it looks. The wheels take a lot of the strain, and I designed the cart to carry my equipment, so it's balanced to my height and weight. Common in other parts of the Empire, where horses can't travel so well, that's what gave me the idea in the first place."

"Well I'll be." His face shows what looks like doubt to me, but he says no more. Ahead we can see a fork in the road leading down to the left. "Coming up to Morthal from the looks of it. If we bump in to each other again, you'll have to let me know what that fishing was like. Aye, there's nothing like it. The lapping of the waves, the pull on the bait, the cold wind bracing on your face. Makes you feel alive."

"Very poetic," I reply with a small smile.

"Well, I am a Bard. Comes with the territory, eh?"

We stop at the crossroads. To the left, the path heads down to Morthal, winding down between two large stone rocks. From where we stand at the top of the hill, I can see all the way to Solitude, the large castle there perched atop the rocky peninsula. I bid Talsgar farewell, telling him I want to have a drink and a bite to eat before heading down. His eyebrows arch slightly and he does not move for a brief second, but then his shoulders shrug and he sets off with a wave.

...

...

When he is out of sight, I look around me carefully. I cannot afford to take the cart into Morthal itself, as I will have to leave it outside Highmoon Hall, and the last thing I want is some nosy resident peeking inside. To my right are a cluster of trees, dense with snow covered leaves, and I pull the cart over to them, and pull it behind. I pull several shrubs from the ground, covering the cart as best I can, then pull a branch off one of the trees and walk backwards, brushing the snowy ground with the branch to obscure both my footprints and the carts tracks. When I stand back on the road, I throw the branch deep into the undergrowth, and study where the cart is, feeling satisfied that it is safe, then I head down the pass to Morthal itself.

Long wooden walkways stretch across the water Morthal lies upon, leading to wooden houses with thatched roofs like Rorikstead, bland and generic. Highmoon Hall though I approve of. A clever design, I think, as I admire the subtle symmetry of the building, the clear lines, and the layers providing the illusion of size. A house I would have been proud to design myself.

My hand holds the necklace around my neck gently, rubbing it, as though I am seeking help or guidance from some obscure enchantment. Walking towards the hall entrance is the Jarl's daughter, Idgrod the Younger, who I have met several times in Whiterun as she seeks help for some ailment her brother suffers from, what I am unsure as I always thought it impolite to ask. With a smile fixed on my face, I walk toward her.

...

...

"Lasska the Designer," says Jarl Ravencrone. She looks at me with interest, keen eyes peering out from under severely plucked eyebrows, as if trying to see my thoughts. Her eyes fascinate me, dark eyes that seem to switch colour between black and brown depending on her mood. She is sprawled in her chair, the regal manner of speaking and distinguished black hair with specks of grey at odds with her posture, legs spread in a most undignified position. "The last time I saw you was at your awards banquet in Solitude."

"I do hope you didn't find my speech too interminably boring," I say, bowing my head to her slightly.

"Nonsense, it was a lovely evening. And a reminder of happier times. Now, my daughter said you wished to ask me my permission for something?"

"Yes, Jarl Ravencrone," I reply, straightening my back. My left hand twitches, and I rapidly put both arms behind my back and clasp my hands together, hoping I look suitably formal. "I'd like your permission to build a house here in Hjaalmarch. Well, rebuild to be more precise. The house that Alfhed Windstad built."

"Why?" she asks."That house has been a ruin since the incident, going back twenty years now."

"I know," I reply, looking around the room. It is spacious, not warm or cosy, I note disapprovingly, but ornate in a formal way. The centrepiece of the room is a huge open log fire built into the floor, there is a row of mounted mudcrabs on the wall behind the Jarl and animal heads of various types mounted high on the walls, their dead eyes staring down on me in judgement. Everything _gleams_. The cleaners that work for the Jarl are certainly dedicated. Although I still believe that better use could be made of the space. Idiot, I think, and I pinch the nail of my index finger sharply to my thumb. Focus; do not let your mind wander, not now. "It's a little embarrassing Jarl Ravencrone," I answer. I try to keep eye contact with her, but I can feel my face flush. "It was at the awards banquet. I had a few hours before the meal, and I was shown Windstad's original plans that he'd filed. It reminded me," I pause, and take a deep breath. "It reminded me of that time. We were competitors back then. I would win an award, he would win an award. I'll be honest, at the time I didn't always appreciate the competition. I suppose we all want to believe we're the best at what we do."

"I can understand that."

"When I saw the original plans though, I had a realisation. That competition, which had so annoyed me, had also driven me. My best work was in fact because of that competition. The two designs, for which I'm best known, Heljarchen Hall and Lakeview Manor, were actually specifically designed in response to designs of his."

"Really?" she says. "I didn't realise that."

"Since Windstad's tragic," I pause, my mouth dry. My tongue rolls around the inside of my mouth in an attempt to replace the saliva. "Incident, as you said twenty odd years ago, without that competition. Well. My work never reached that level again. And here I was, about to be honoured for work I knew had fallen in quality, and I had his design in my hand. I never saw the house, but I could feel what he'd been trying to achieve, and I had the thought that if I could complete his vision, if I could feel that competitive urge one more time. That perhaps it could be the point at which I fall in love once again with what I do."

She looks at me, leans forward and favours me with a slow deliberate examination. One of her fingers taps against the arm of her chair, and I stare at it fascinated. Tap, tap. She leans back. Tap, tap. Her mouth opens. Tap, tap. Time seems to stretch longer than I thought was possible. "Is that true? I would like to believe it."

"Jarl Ravencrone?"

"I don't suppose it matters," she replies with a sigh. "I won't deny that the ruin is an eyesore, as well as a bad memory. Yes, Lasska, you have my permission to rebuild the house, although I'm not sure who will live there. Unless of course you were planning?"

"No, Jarl Ravencrone," I say, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat off my brow, but unwilling to bring my hands out from behind my back, as they now seem to be suffering from involuntary spasms. "I'm quite settled in Whiterun. Perhaps it could go to one of your Thanes?"

"Perhaps," she answers. "That can be decided later. In the meantime, yes, you have my blessing."

I exhale quietly. It feels like I have been holding my breath, although I have no recollection of having done so. My mouth feels dry, and I fight the urge to collapse into a chair, instead backing up a few paces, before turning and heading to the exit.

...

...

I pull the cart through what I hope is the last bit of boggy terrain. It is only a short distance from Morthal, but the journey has taken me a couple of hours, and the bright afternoon sun replaced by the dull onset of dusk once again. With a heave, I manage to pull it onto firm ground, and I can see my destination. I am not sure what I feel. Relief maybe, nerves. Memories come back, unbidden and unwanted. I try to push them out of my mind, and walk forwards to where I remember, accosted by the sounds and smells of the sea, salt water on my tongue, sensations which once signified pleasure. What once was what I had thought I desired.

I compose myself, and walk towards the ruin.

The stone foundations survived the fire. The stone now adorned with scorch marks. Patches of land where there was once grass, burnt so severely it never grew back. Burned wood, piled up afterwards, now mostly decayed. An anvil, a smelter, all stained black. Stumps of trees that had been too close to the house, where sparks had travelled and destroyed.

My breath catches, and I turn away, my hand holding my stomach, the inside of it feeling heavy. About fifty paces away is a small hill. I unclasp the cart, walk to it, and sit down on the cold ground, looking back at the house.

_The bottom of the house is now burning incredibly brightly. I sit at a safe distance on a hill nearby, hidden in the shadows, close enough to see, too far to hear. Too far to be seen. I am not sure what the men I hired used as an accelerant, but it is certainly effective. Smoke pours upward, black and dense._

_Three men in black exit the house, dragging a man and a woman, two on the man pulling by the arms, the woman pulled roughly by the hair. She is in pain, terrified, uncomprehending. So is he._

_I smile._

_The men drag them to near the shore, and force them onto their knees, facing the burning house. I was insistent upon that point. They had to see it burn. See that monstrosity burn._

_A seething tongue of flame, incandescent against the dark night sky, shoots out the upstairs window, glass shattering, glittering shards scattering gracefully through the air. The smoke has made a blur in the sky, directly above the house, a glorious combination of yellow, orange and black. It is beautiful; the strange shapes formed by the smoke dancing in the sky in its wild celebration, reminiscent of the gates of Oblivion themselves._

_She is crying. He looks at her and says something, but I am too far away to make out what it is. It does not matter. Not now. Not ever again. Bad enough that people think he has talent. Bad enough that people compare him to me, despite the ludicrous, ugly, insufferable buildings he creates. For her to choose him though, with his pretentious towers and turrets. After me._

_No._

_The man and woman look like they are begging. Swords rise, glinting in the reflection of the flames. The house eaten by the flames, a fervent funeral pyre consumed and devoured. In the dark of the night, it is hard to tell what is left of the wooden frames, just the flames. Flickering, dancing, gleeful._

_The swords flash, the woman first. He had to watch, that was the agreement. His mouth is wide open, a silent wail, his arms outstretched. He tries to reach her. Two of the black figures grab him, and hold him back._

_Time seems to freeze, my breath held, eyes unblinking._

_The third man steps forward, a flash of silver, the body convulses._

_The body falls._

_My breath comes out in an ecstatic rush._

_Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a shape, small, moving fast. A boy I realise, the son, running away from the house, away from the men._

_I freeze. He is not supposed to be there. I am unable to stand, unable to wave in warning._

_I just sit as he disappears from sight, my hand gripping the necklace I wear around my neck so tightly the knuckles are white._

_It will not be viewed an accident now I realise. I can control the situation though, I tell myself, I can always control the situation. He is an orphan now, only so many places he can go. My research into the father showed only one other family member. A brother, if I remember correctly, a blind man serving time in prison for petty theft. No, for now only one place he will end up. Perhaps it is time I contributed to Honorhall Orphanage. I have heard rumours that the new headmistress can see reason when it comes to financial matters, and once there out of sight, out of mind._

_My eyes return to the pyrotechnics in the dark, the flicker of the flames reflecting the flicker of my smile._

Dark is almost here. I walk from the hill back to the ruins, back to the cart. I reach into the small one-man boat tied to it, and pull items from it, my equipment, papers, measuring tools and put them down on the ground. With care, I reach back in, and lift out a body, wrapped in rugs. I place it on the ground, and unroll it, then reach back into the boat and pull out dry wood that it had been resting upon. I carry the wood several paces away, put it down, and go back for a second trip. The wood I carefully spread, and stack high. From the cart, I pull out the final item, a jar of oil, and walk back to the wood, splashing it evenly, leaving a small amount at the bottom of the jar. I rummage through my papers, find one of the scrolls I am looking for, and speak the words softly.

The sky is now black, but the fire gives more than enough light to work with. I untie the boat, and ease it forwards, then drag it the remaining distance off the cart, and down to the water's edge. I pour the remaining oil slowly and evenly around the top of the boat, and then walk back to the body. My eyes feel gritty and dry and I have to fight the urge to wipe them.

I pull it down to the boat, and manoeuvre it inside, lying on its back. The hands I clasp in front of the chest. Reaching around my neck, I pull off the necklace there, and gently place it around his neck. She would want that, I am sure, and I feel a sense of time having gone full circle. The scars on his face make me wince; from pity or shame, I am unsure. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my nose, which has to begun to run, roll my shoulders to relieve the growing tension, and by the side of the boat, I kneel.

"Arkay, God of burials and funerals, I beg of you, hear my plea. He never stood a chance, through no fault of his own. Take him to you. Let the necklace guide him to his mother. Let them be re-united. In your name, please hear my plea."

I strip off all my clothes, and step into the water, pulling the burning boat by a rope attached to the front. When it floats of its own accord, I move around to the rear, and push, watching as it catches the current, and starts to drift out to sea. I close my eyes, and lower my knees, until completely covered by the water, and allow myself to just soak, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness.

I climb back onto the beach, and sit naked by the fire. The boat keeps drifting, flames dancing high, flickering in the dark, a beacon calling out.

The tension in my neck starts to feel less pronounced, and I tilt my head back and look at the sky. The clouds are moving again, a breeze picking up. Stars start to appear, a glittering becoming brighter and brighter. My breathing slows and I start to feel drowsy. The water is shimmering under the starlight, as though awakening from its slumber.

Tomorrow I will start preparations for the rebuilding, to bring this ruin back to life. For now, I sit shivering, by the glow of the fire, my heartbeat steady and calm as the tears start to flow. I enjoy the softness as they pass over my skin, the saltiness as they reach my mouth.

Just guide him home, I whisper to the shimmering sea and it sways and splashes in reply, glowing from within. My eyelids feel heavy, and I lay down by the warmth of the fire, waiting calmly for blissful, blissful sleep.


End file.
